Cheurs Folles
by GreenEponine
Summary: Jehan is a silly dear, which we all know and adore. And, Jehan, being a silly dear, is in love, and unfortunately, quite heartbroken. Now complete, huzzah!
1. Cheurs Folles

**Hello, my fellow Les Misians! *Gives huge wave*I have, after many years of fandom of both the novel and the musical, decided to try my hand at Les Mis fanfiction. Hopefully, I do at least a little justice to something as amazing as Les Mis.**

**Disclaimer: As I am none of the following: French, dead, male, or dear old Victor, I should think it fairly clear that I do not, in fact, own Les Mis. I would, however, love a Jehan.**

**A quick note: my Feuilly, who loves to decorate my house with his pretty painted fans and maps of Poland, is Martin Feuilly. **

**That said, please, dear readers, enjoy.**

One poetically rainy Wednesday morning, Jehan awoke rather later than usual. It was always raining that spring, Jehan reflected as he gazed out the window from his comfortable bed. Rain, though beautiful in its own way, made the poet sad. Rather like Martin, though beautiful, made the poet sad. It had been a mistake to fall in love, Jehan reflected, love wasn't at all beautiful, not when it had to be kept caged and silent like this.

Jehan finally pulled himself out of his warm and far too comfortable bed, for once feeling slightly less than depressed, a rarity for the past weeks. It was far past the hour Jehan usually breakfasted with Courfeyrac, Bossuet, and Joly, and nearly past the hour Jehan usually attended class. Agnes, his large, fluffy, mud-coloured cat-who had a rather mud-like personality-, hissed at him as he climbed out of bed, then rolled over and continued her morning long nap.

Jehan looked out the window of his bedroom again and was struck by the lovely sight of rain dripping off the surrounding rooftops and found the writer's block that had so depressed him the previous week drifting away. This would be a wonderful poem, far better than all his depressing verse about Martin. Dear, dear Martin! No, he must not think of that now, he must write, write the verses of beauty that evade him when he obsesses on Martin. He hunted for paper, for his good pen, for an inkpot, desperately needing to record the fleeting verses that had so suddenly invaded his head. _Dripping, dropping, dancing…_

Several hours later, Jehan was covered ink, and most definitely not going to class that day, but he had a new poem. Which was really all that mattered. Feeling triumphant, happier than he had in weeks, and more than a little hungry, Jehan laid his new poem out on the desk, dressed quickly in an exceptionally bright yellow doublet he'd convinced Courfeyrac to glean from an actor friend, kissed Agnes- who growled in response-good bye, and ran out the door of his tenement building.

By the time he reached the Musain, Jehan, who had never in anyone's memory remembered to carry an umbrella, was drenched. But, in the light of his new poem, he was still quite cheerful.

Jehan ordered some sort of stew from Louison, who looked shocked to see a student in the Musain at this time of day, and spotted Martin sitting in at a corner. Feuilly was glaring down at the table, and seemed even more preoccupied than usual.

Jehan felt his heart do that odd twist it had taken to performing whenever he saw Martin and spent a good moment considering flight before hastening to Martin's side.

"Cher Martin!" Jehan practically flung himself into Feuilly's lap, which Feuilly did not look particularly pleased about. Always a properly silly Romantic, and exulting in the opportunity to kiss Martin, Jehan planted sloppy kisses on Feuilly's cheeks.

"Dieu, Prouvaire! Don't pounce like that. And for God's sake, should you insist on giving me kisses on the cheek, give them properly!" Feuilly snapped, causing Jehan to jump back and regard Feuilly from the other side of the table. Les Amis had always been careful not to lose their tempers with Jehan, however silly or childish his Romantic fancies led him to be, because of Jehan's unfortunate habit of crying whenever anyone lost his temper with him in the slightest (which Les Amis had discovered one fateful day when Enjolras, fearless leader that he was, had seen fit to bellow at the resident poet. But that, chers, is another story for another time).

Jehan could feel his cheeks heating, his heart shattering, and his eyes filling with tears as he asked "Is something wrong, Martin? Have I really so offended you?"

Feuilly, who had been glaring down at the table, glared up at Jehan and growled, "Go away, Prouvaire. It's not your concern."

It was now Jehan's turn to look down at the table, hoping the fan maker could not read his expression for once and trying to hide his tears from the exceptionally angry Feuilly, "But if something is wrong, Martin, you must let me try to help. Isn't that what we're here for? To try and help our fellow man?" Feuilly glared down at the table, avoiding looking at the crying poet. "I-I- just want to help. P-p-please?"

Jehan was fully crying now, and remorse filled Feuilly's face as he glanced at the sobbing poet. He grabbed Jehan's hands. Jehan felt his heart leap at Martin's touch. "Jehan, it's all right. I promise. It's not your fault. I shouldn't have yelled at you, mon ami." He took a deep breath and stared down at the table again before saying. "Look, I lost my job. And with no job, there's no money, and with no money, there's no rent and no food. And with no rent and no food, I'll be starving on the streets again."

Jehan squeezed Feuilly's hands and stared at the fan maker. "But, Martin, your fans are so lovely. Surely you can find another position."

Feuilly laughed, in a bitter sort of way, "Jehan, there's no position I could find that would pay even half of what I was making, and I was barely surviving on that."

Jehan stared sadly down at their hands again, finally feeling his tears backing off. That was when the idea flickered into his head, fast and barely there at first, like of Jehan's ideas. Jehan brightened and proclaimed, "Then you shall come live with me, until you can find another position and save up enough to pay for a flat."

Feuilly simply looked incredulous in response to Jehan's brilliant plan. "No." He dropped Jehan's hands.

Jehan's heart broke in two.

"But, Martin, please. It's a sensible solution, really, it is. It would give you the time to hunt for a well-paying position, and you wouldn't have to pay rent while you looked. And…" Jehan trailed off, though his plan was a good one-to him, at least-, he sounded pathetic, like a child pleading for Christmas to come early.

Feuilly regarded him seriously, then reached over and squeezed his hand sympathetically. "No, Jehan. I can't share your flat. How could I ever repay you? I don't have enough to split rent, nor could I ever have enough to rent a flat big enough for one person, let alone two."

Jehan must have looked nearly as heart-broken as he felt, because Feuilly stumbled over his sentences as he tried to comfort Jehan, "Jehan, it's just not- I mean, it's a good idea, but- Damn it, Prouvaire! Stop Crying! Mon Dieu, I'm sorry, Jehan. I didn't mean to yell…. But, no. No, Jehan, I will not move in with you." Feuilly, in an odd moment of affection for the crying poet, embraced Jehan.

Jehan still crying, leaned forward and clumsily placed a kiss on Martin's mouth.

Feuilly sprang back, glaring at Jehan. His words were filled with acid as he backed towards the door, "I'm not like you, Prouvaire, do you understand that? I'm not the poor orphan you students can use as you please. Courfeyrac already tried the same damn trick on me. Don't say you want to help me if all you want to do is bed me!" The words echoed through the still café like a slap as Feuilly stormed out the door, leaving a heart-broken poet crying into his doublet at the table.

Jehan was still crying when Louison finally brought him some sort of stew. He left without eating, and went home to wrap himself in his quilt, hug a protesting Agnes, and sadly watch the rain as he wrote yet another sad poem about Martin.

**Well, that's it for now, mes amis. Please review. Reviews will help us get Jehan a therapist. Let me know if you liked it, if you didn't, etc. Be forewarned, however, flames will be used to roast marshmallows next to my barricade. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Allright, I have up 'til Chapter 6 planned, and will try to update fairly regularly. However, this may be impossible for a while as my volunteer position has gotten incredibly hectic, and will to continue to be so for quite a while. **

**Disclaimer: Hmm, I am teenaged, American, and female, and my name is not Victor, so I'd say still don't own Les Mis. **

**And, now, from Feuilly's perspective, it is time for another chapter…**

Chapter 2

Feuilly stormed down the street after slamming the door to the Musain. Never again. Never again would he return to the café where all the rich students gathered together to pity the poor of Paris, to pity him. The whole lot of them could go to hell for all he cared.

And Prouvaire. Stupid, silly, childish Prouvaire. Feuilly cursed himself. And he'd thought Prouvaire was one of the few who actually cared about the plight of the poor, cared about him. But Prouvaire had only been a lusting brat, fancying him only for a little affair, until Prouvaire could find a grisette who enjoyed his childish looks and silly mannerisms. Prouvaire was at least as bad as that bastard Courfeyrac. Worse even, at least Courfeyrac hadn't been so manipulative.

Well, damn them all! Feuilly was never going back. Never again being the poor fan maker who the students could pity as they liked, or the orphan who they expected would bed with any of them for the smallest scrap of affection they offered him.

Damn Prouvaire! Courfeyrac had kissed him too, when he first spoke of beginning their trysts. Kissed him firmly on the mouth and called him "Mon ami" then progressed to "Mon amour" as the night wore on. It's wasn't completely Courfeyrac's fault, at least at the very beginning, Feuilly had finally admitted long after their trysts were over. Feuilly hadn't been exactly been blind to his intentions in the beginning (he'd learned quite a bit about such relationships while growing up on the street), and had pretty much let Courfeyrac do what he pleased.

But the nerve of Courfeyrac, to suggest Feuilly move in with him, to save on rent; to suggest that Feuilly leave his job, as Courfeyrac's ample allowance could easily support them both –and here Feuilly cursed himself again for his stupidity, to blindly go along with Courfeyrac-; and to treat Feuilly as a pampered mistress, then to leave Feuilly at the first pretty grisette who made eyes at him.

Courfeyrac had, of course, suggested that Feuilly stay; live in the flat; even get his old job back, if he liked. But he'd said it in such a pitying tone, and with that pitying look he gave mistresses he'd fallen out of love with, but who still loved him, and Feuilly could read in his eyes was "Look at the poor orphan. Still loves me, silly boy, isn't he? Starved for affection, isn't he? Poor, pathetic boy." Feuilly had stormed out of the flat after that, gathering his things, not the things Courfeyrac had bought him, and yelled at Courfeyrac that he'd prefer not to remain friends, or see him at all (Courfeyrac had looked rather shocked at that, as if he'd expected his multitudinous charms to keep the fan maker in the flat). Feuilly could still feel his heart being ripped apart at the memory, even after all this time. Damn him!

That was the first time Feuilly'd sworn never to see that Ami again. He'd even stopped going to meetings for about three months. But finally, he'd come back, only to get drawn into a conversation with the newest member, Jean Prouvaire. A poet fresh from the provinces who'd been only too happy to finally have a fellow artist there, who Feuilly had actually enjoyed conversing with, had loved to send time with. But it had all been a ploy hadn't it? A trick to charm Feuilly into his bed until he tired of the affair, then to abandon the fan maker at the next grisette who gave him the time-of-day.

They were all the same, these students, all pitying and "working for" the poor, but truly using them and leaving them as they saw fit.

Feuilly glared up at the door of his tenement, quite amazed he'd even made it home in this state. It was still raining, he realized, glaring up at the sky. Well, let it rain! It just made the day so horribly much brighter.

He struggled for his key and stormed up the stairs, still fuming over Prouvaire, his position, Courfeyrac.

Feuilly let himself into his rather dismal flat, full of dust, rickety furniture, and ragged bed clothes. He just stood there, right in the doorway, and felt as if he might break the fragile handle off the door if he tried to close it. He felt wet now, drenched from the rain, and more depressed than angry. It was easier to be angry at the world when he was not stuck in the dismal little flat that he would no longer be living in when his land-lady discovered his unemployment. He felt the anger churn into dark and encompassing depression as he realized that despite all that Enjolras and Combeferre had said about helping those without help, Les Amis was really just a bunch of rich boys who didn't care a bit.

Feuilly shut the door to his flat gently, even in his disturbed state, he was afraid to break the door; and flung himself rather violently onto the bed, punching his rather flat pillow before sinking his head into it, still unsure whether or not he felt like weeping.

'**S all for now, mes amis. Hope you enjoyed Angry Feuilly. Review if you feel like it. Ciao!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey everybody! Sorry I haven't posted for a few days, but due to an incident involving very hot chicken, sundried tomatoes, and pasta, boiling sauce, and my hand, I haven't been able to type for a few days (and probably shouldn't be typing now, but ehhh). **

**Thank you for the lovely reviews! I love reading them every time I check the story. So thank those who have reviewed for making my day. **

**Disclaimer: Did Hugo ever burn his hand attempting Italian cookery? I think not, and I, therefore, am not Hugo.**

**Onto the story now. It's from our favorite philosopher's POV this time. Go, 'Ferre!**

Chapter 3

Enjolras pulled Combeferre aside after that night's meeting had concluded. Combeferre smiled apologetically at the man he'd been talking to and adjusted his glasses in a rather tired gesture before turning to Enjolras and going "Well, what is it?"

Enjolras looked almost exasperated-it hadn't been one of their better meetings, to say the least- "Prouvaire, Ettiene. Where is Prouvaire? He wasn't in class today, and he never misses both class and a meeting? And Feuilly, where is Feuilly? Where is Feuilly's report?"

Combeferre had noticed their absence, but hadn't worried. Everyone (excepting Fearless Leader) missed meetings once in a while. He re-adjusted his glasses and put on his most calming look before answering Enjolras, "Look, Julian, it's nothing to be nervous about. They've only missed the one meeting. Prouvaire was likely caught up in some Romantic rhapsody. Feuilly likely had to work tonight. It's happened before."

Enjolras progressed from almost exasperated to clearly annoyed as he took in Combeferre's highly rational and reasonable explanation, and Courfeyrac, being Courfeyrac, waltzed over to see what on earth had Fearless Leader so annoyed.

Combeferre decided it would be a rather good idea to reassure Enjolras before Courfeyrac could do any major damage, "It's Jehan and Feuilly, Julian. They're both dependable. They'll both turn up next meeting."

Which, oddly enough, turned out to be exactly the wrong thing to say at that moment.

"Feuilly, hmm?" Courfeyrac said in a far more serious tone than usual, "He was laid off today, his whole shop was. Heard it from a friend's mistress whose brother worked there. Pretty girl, dreadful situation. Truly awful, isn't it? The poor boy."

And before Combeferre could even think to respond, Courfeyrac had flashed off across the room to join another, far more interesting conversation.

When Combeferre turned back to Enjolras, Fearless Leader had already planned their newest campaign, "You'll go to visit Feuilly, see if he needs help, money, a place to live, anything. I'll see to Prouvaire." Enjolras looked determinedly menacing at the last pronouncement.

Combeferre thought it best to try and intercede on the poet's behalf, "Perhaps I should see to Prouvaire? You are far closer to Feuilly than I…"

Fearless Leader, however, ignored this suggestion, finished gathering his tings, and strode out of the back room, determinedly marching off to Prouvaire's flat.

Combeferre was left to gather the multitudinous cacophony of papers he'd amassed during the evening, find his hat, and wander off to comfort the jobless fan maker, who, to be completely honest, he was not entirely sure would like to be comforted.

**That's all for today. I'm gonna go watch Granada TV's "The Adventure of the Second Stain" now. Hope you enjoyed, and I apologize for the shortness of the chapter, but the next will be longer. **


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey everybody! Sorry I haven't updated for quite a while, but it's still cram time at my non-for-profit. Fun… **

**This is another slightly shorter chapter, but I promise I'll have longer ones soon. **

**A huge thank you to everyone who has reviewed! You guys are so sweet and I love each and every one of you for your amazing reviews! I promise that the next time I'm home for more than 2 hours I'll r&r your stories too. **

**Disclaimer: Is Victor going to college in Iowa? Didn't think so.**

**Now, it's dear Jehan's time again… Enjoy.**

**Chapter 4 **

Jehan was still sobbing somewhat, wrapped in his quilt, with sad, tearstained poems scattered around him (Agnes having long since fled for the refuge of under the bed), when the knock came at his door.

Jehan couldn't bring himself to get up immediately, and thusly did not answer the door. A far more impatient knock rang through the wood, along with an angry "Prouvaire, you'd better be home."

Ah. Enjolras. So he had missed a meeting. Not that meetings really mattered now, not when everything was gone, not when Martin was gone. Not now that Martin did not love him.

Jehan pulled himself off the bed, and shuffled over to door. He unlocked it and let an exceptionally angry looking Enjolras into his flat.

"Is there any particular reason you decided to skip this meeting, Prouvaire? What was more important than the future of the Republic?" Enjolras sounded ice cold as he shoved through Jehan into the flat and Jehan felt his injured heart freeze a little more. Enjolras glared at him expectantly, as if saying, "Well, go on then, Prouvaire, and you'd better a damn good reason." Jehan shuddered a bit, and looked at the floor.

Enjolras now looked somewhat concerned, and glanced up and down Jehan quickly before asking, "You aren't ill, are you?"

Yes! Jehan screamed inside his head, I'm horribly ill and heartbroken and it's all my own foolish fault! If only Martin had loved me! Jehan hesitated, though, realizing even in his heartbroken and horribly depressed state, that claiming heartbreak as illness would most likely convince Enjolras to kick him out of the ABC then and there, and if he lost the ABC as he had lost Martin, what would he have? Nothing, nothing at all, but a broken heart and a grumpy Agnes.

"I'm feeling a bit unwell, " Jehan was relieved to hear he sounded at least a little sick, and he was quite sure he looked just about as awful as he felt after the entire day of heartbreak and weeping, "I think I'm a bit feverish, and I wasn't feeling well enough to get out of bed. "Jehan didn't even have to try to look pathetic; he'd never had a more pathetic day in his life.

Enjolras softened and gestured toward the bed. Even by Enjolras, illness was a legitimate reason to miss a meeting, "You ought to go back to bed, Jean. Rest."

Jehan was far too depressed to even notice Enjolras had insisted on his usual disdain for childish nicknames as he lay back down on the bed gratefully. He watched Enjolras pace the room awkwardly for a moment, before he murmured, "Not to overburden you, Jean, but Feuilly lost his position today, and I was wondering if you wouldn't mind contributing a bit for him, at least until he's back on his feet?" Enjolras sounded anxious, worried about one of his top lieutenants, and Jehan felt himself drowning in the familiar lake of despair at the mention of Martin.

Jehan felt tears fill his eyes again. Funny. He thought he'd managed to shed all is tears in the earlier hours of heartbreak. Jehan could feel his heart break freshly in two and the hot tears tracing their familiar paths down his cheeks, as he nodded mutely in response to Enjolras' question.

Enjolras looked concerned and reached over to pat the crying poet's hand awkwardly. "It's all right, Jean, we'll find him another position, I promise."

But Jehan continued to cry, still thinking of the disastrous morning and of Martin's anger and revulsion and just… just Martin. He felt himself losing control again.

Enjolras shifted his feet uncomfortably, and stared concernedly at Jehan.

"I'm all right," Jehan heard himself whisper, "You can leave if you'd like."

Enjolras looked quite relieved, patted Jehan's hand again, and quickly bound out of the room, calling back that he would send Combeferre 'round for a look at Jehan in the morning.

Jehan managed to keep the truly huge sobs silent until he heard Enjolras shut the door. Then he felt the floodwalls break again, and once more sobbed out the heartache and pain that had plagued him since he'd made such an idiot of himself that morning, since he'd fallen in love with Martin. He could only wonder as he sobbed, did it ever stop hurting?

Enjolras heard Jehan break into absolutely heart-wrenching sobs as he closed the door and wondered if he ought not to go back in and comfort the distraught poet. But Jehan had seemed to want to be alone, and he wasn't particularly good at anything that had to do with comforting people rather than organizing them into troops. He left the door closed and walked quickly down the hall, hoping Combeferre would have an easier time with Jehan in the morning.

An awful meeting, a member sick, and a member unemployed, he reflected to himself as he left the boarding house. What a day for the ABC.

**That's all for today, chers. I will update next when I am home for more than 15 minutes. Thank you for reading!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey Everybody! It's super early in the morning, and I have decided to update before I go to the office. **

**Okay, it's not super-super early, but I'm still having trouble thinking of things to say before this chapter, from Combeferre and Feuilly's perspectives, respectively. I just found out I like words that end in "spective". Let's see, retrospective, introspective…**

**Okay, I 'm just gonna give the disclaimer, then post, because I'm obviously still not awake. **

**Disclaimer: Did Hugo like words that ended in "spective" first thing in the morning? Retrospectively, I don't think so.**

**Now, coffee time for me. **

**Chapter 5**

Combeferre let himself into Feuilly's flat after knocking and receiving no answer. It was rather dismal, he reflected; tiny, grey, and generally worn. There was something merely mad about the flat.

Feuilly was lying on the bed, still dressed; sleeping with a rather angrily worried expression on his face, and Combeferre considered leaving right then. In fact, he had nearly backed out of the room when Feuilly sprang awake with a "What the hell?"

Feuilly sat up, surveyed the room for a moment, and smoothed his coat, "Combeferre, Ah… Have a seat?" He gestured to the rickety chair by the door, and Combeferre perched himself rather gingerly on the edge of it, adjusting his glasses in his usual nervous habit.

Combeferre cleared his throat nervously before saying, "Enjolras wanted me to come. You see, we've heard about…" He wasn't really sure what to say here. Feuilly's expression darkened.

"Ah," Feuilly looked down into his lap, gritting his teeth.

Combeferre shifted uncomfortably in the creaking chair, "Well, if you should need anything, anything at all…"

Feuilly was looking up at now, but in a definitely unpleasant way, "I'll remember that." Combeferre had never heard Feuilly sound so cold. "Now, if you wouldn't mind…" Feuilly was gesturing rather blatantly at the door. Combeferre rose as quickly as possible from the chair, which sagged from relief as his weight left it and creaked in a rather worrisome way, earning it a glare from Feuilly.

"If you should need anything, like I said…" Combeferre stared down at his feet, hovering awkwardly in the doorway.

"Yes, I do believe I understood that the first time. Now," Feuilly's tone was even more coldly polite and pointed, "Bonne Nuit, Monsieur."

Combeferre stepped into the hall, still looking at his feet, and felt the door clip closed behind him. He sighed, feeling rather sad for and because of Feuilly, and walked down the hall half-heartedly. He dreaded returning the flat he shared with Enjolras and telling Fearless Leader about his failure with Feuilly.

Feuilly was angry, to say the least, as he clipped the door behind Combeferre. First he'd lost his position, then that stupid brat of a poet had tried to seduce him into another situation like the one with Courfeyrac, and now he had the general pity of all the damn students. Bastards, as if they would even try to do anything to truly help the poor. They only wanted to help him the way Courfeyrac had.

He needed to find another job, and another place to live, somewhere these pitying damn students couldn't find him.

**So that's it, and my Feuilly is not happy right now because I'm listening to Chess and there's a line about the Russia and Poland. Yep, it's still kinda early. Please review, and I apologize for the rambling author's comments.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hey everyone! I just want to say I am super sorry for the rambly author's note this morning. Apparently, I shouldn't update that early in the morning. Sorry!**

**Also, a major thank you to Insanemistosingmore for correcting my French in the last chapter! Please, if anyone should catch further errors, let me know. I know very little French because I was forced to take Latin in high school. **

**Disclaimer: Did Hugo have a rambling problem? Oh. Oops. He might've, just a bit. Okay, but I'm still not Hugo. **

**Onto the story now, from Courfeyrac's perspective this time.**

Chapter Six

The café was much fuller than usual that morning, Courfeyrac reflected as he sat down with Joly to order breakfast. Bossuet would've sat down along with them, but he seemed to be intent on turning the morning into an exercise in falling out of chairs (among other things).

Brie and oysters having been ordered, along with a wine Courfeyrac found quite a bit too cloying for his taste, Joly pulled out his notes from his last medical class and began anxiously checking over the list of symptoms for cholera for the fourth time that morning. Courfeyrac bit back a laugh as Joly pulled out his much abused pocket mirror to check his complexion for any traces of a cyan tone, then turned to Bossuet and asked, "Do I look at all off to you, even blue perhaps? Did I seem short of breath this morning? Did I-"

Bossuet laughed in the face of Joly's constant hypochondria, "Jollly, do you trust my judgment?" Courfeyrac finally let out a hearty laugh as Joly nodded anxiously, "You do not, and I repeat not, have cholera. Are you satisfied now?"

Joly turned back to his mirror somewhat huffily, and grumbled, "But what about thith spoth on my tongth?" While holding out his tongue for Courfeyrac's inspection.

Courfeyrac couldn't keep himself from rolling his eyes as Joly as he grabbed the hypochondriac's mirror, "No more diagnosing before breakfast, Monsieur le docteur."

Joly looked as if he wanted to protest Courfeyrac's confiscation of his prized mirror, but turned back to his notes with his usual amount of jovial anxiety. Courfeyrac, on the other hand, made what he felt was excellent use of Joly's mirror by checking that his expertly curled mane was still in place. Bossuet fell out of his chair for the second time that morning.

Courfeyrac pocketed Joly's mirror as he watched the door of the Musain for anyone particularly interesting. Bossuet laughed as he pulled himself off the floor and sat again on the chair that seemed intent on ejecting him.

Combeferre entered the Musain, looking somewhat disturbed and nursing his hand in a way that implied a fairly serious injury. Courfeyrac, sensing something exciting, quickly excused himself from the amiable company of the hypochondriac and the chronically unlucky and made his way to Enjolras' usual table, where a now somewhat angry looking Combeferre had seated himself. Courfeyrac took the other free chair at the table and joined Enjolras in looking rather expectantly at Combeferre, feeling a bit like a child anxiously awaiting a story from mother.

Combeferre adjusted his glasses with his free hand, revealing the other hand to be a mess of what looked suspiciously like wounds from a battle with a cat, and cleared his throat, "I went to visit Jehan this morning, Julian. I don't think he's actually sick. Depressed, more likely."

Enjolras opened his mouth to ask Combeferre a question, presumably about Jehan's mental state, but Courfeyrac cut him off, earning himself an exceptionally icy glare from Fearless Leader, "But what in the hell happened to you?"

Combeferre glanced over at Enjolras, who was still glaring at Courfeyrac –who smiled in his most endearing way as an answer-, before answering, "I went to visit Jehan, who wasn't quite awake when I dropped by, and incurred the wrath of Agnes, his cat, you remember? When I tried to examine him for any major illnesses, the cat attacked my hand as if she thought I were trying to kill him. I tried to put the cat on the floor, she wouldn't let go of my hand, and she ended up landing quite hard on the floor." Combeferre swallowed unpleasantly here, and looked at Enjolras who was watching him rather interestedly before continuing, "Jehan was displeased about the cat, you see, and he… well… all but kicked me out of his flat."

Courfeyrac laughed quite a bit at that, only managing to sputter, "Jean Prouvaire, Poet and Defender of the Feline Race!" Only Jehan would love something as grouchy and mangy as that awful cat.

Enjolras returned his cold gaze to Courfeyrac for a moment as a warning that the laughing student had better stop, then said, "Don't mock Prouvaire. At least he's willing to fight for what he believes in, be it the defense of felines. I suspect Prouvaire has quite a bit more too him than we've ever seen. Just wait until he's truly provoked. He'll fight to defend his beliefs, his poetry, maybe even his politics; which is more than most men should even try, even many of those gathered around us at our meetings. Should all the men in this room hold the hidden fervor I suspect in Prouvaire, we should have all of Paris on our side of the Revolution, perhaps even all of France. Man must fight for what he believes to be right, or man must not exist. I-"

Courfeyrac could hardly keep from rolling his eyes as Combeferre touched Enjolras' arm and shook his head to suggest that this was not the place for inspired revolutionary speeches. Jehan? Hidden strength Hidden fervor? Fighting for his beliefs? As much as he might enjoy the meek poet's company, he suspected the poet would be one of the first to run if they should truly decide to revolt. The boy was practically terrified of his own shadow, and Jehan had never spoken up at meetings, the way the others did, except to compare the revolution to some great celestial portrait, or to compare the republic to the kingdom of angels where all was also equal. Jehan, as far as Courfeyrac could tell, was meek, quiet, and a bit odd through and through. If Enjolras really thought the poet would fight for anything but that ridiculous cat of his, Fearless Leader was truly deluded.

Courfeyrac sprang from his thoughts at a rather grand crash from the table he earlier surrendered. Bossuet had somehow managed to fall out of his chair for a third time that morning, upsetting the table holding the recently delivered wine, drenching Joly's notes (and Joly himself), and breaking both wine glasses. Joly looked considerably annoyed as he fished for his notes in the wine and broken glass, but Bossuet just laughed at his misfortune and ill balance as he brushed glass from his trousers and squeezed wine out of his coat.

Courfeyrac nearly fell out his chair laughing himself as he surveyed the entertaining misfortune of the hypochondriac and the Eagle of Meux. Combeferre even allowed himself a quick chuckle at the scene as the pair scrambled to right the table and clean the wine off the floor before Louison came back to see what on earth had happened.

Enjolras, however, looked distinctly displeased at the display as he cleared his throat, and once again commanded the attention of Combeferre, "I suggest we leave Prouvaire alone till he should care to come back to meetings." He rose, deciding to leave without eating breakfast for the twenty third time that month (Did Enjolras ever eat, Courfeyrac wondered, or did he merely live on the words of revolutionaries long past and the intricacy of his plans for the Republic?). Enjolras put on his hat and turned back to Combeferre and said, in an undertone, "I believe I'll visit Feuilly. See if I can sway him into letting us help him." He saluted the way he always did instead of waving, and left the café.

Courfeyrac turned back to Combeferre after Fearless Leader was gone, catching a glimpse of the unfortunate pair trying to explain to Louison exactly how they had managed to do that much damage as he did so, and asked, "So what did happen with Feuilly last night?"

Combeferre looked exasperatedly at the ceiling before re-adjusting his glasses and starting into the tale of his failure the previous night.

**Please review! Next time, it's Jehan's turn again… with dear Agnes, of course.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Three chapters in one day? Have I gone insane? No, don't answer that.**

**This chapter needs a tad bit of explanation. Courfeyrac, in my opinion, looks up to Enjolras as Fearless Leader, but also has had a little fancy to prove Enjolras wrong about something (in this case, Jehan), in an effort to make Enjolras seem more human, I've actually written a one-shot about Courfeyrac trying to find fault with Enjolras' ideals and his theories about the temperaments of Les Amis, which I will publish here when I find it. **

**Disclaimer: Did Hugo ever have frog bookends? I think not.**

Chapter 7

Jehan was angry when Combeferre left, which was, he supposed, at least better than the absolute depression of the last day and night. At least he wasn't crying anymore.

Jehan listened for a second to make sure Combeferre had really left, then knelt next to his bed; Agnes was cowering under it, frightened by the loud voices, and rattled from the drop to the floor. Poor, sweet Agnes.

Jehan made a soft, coaxing noise as he tried to get Agnes to come out. Poor, rattled kitty. Combeferre could've at least made an effort to place her gently on the floor rather than flinging the cat down. Poor, poor Agnes. Stupid Combeferre.

Agnes hissed distinctly as Jehan tried to pull her from under the bed. He let go of the cat and rose slowly, feeling exhausted as he'd managed to catch only a few seconds of sleep before he was so rudely awakened by Combeferre.

Agnes hissed again under the bed, clearing stating her declaration of war on anyone who might decide to try and remove her from her sanctuary. Jehan sighed sadly. Now not even Agnes loved him.

He sat back down on his bed with a melancholic thud, and glared around at the poems covering nearly every inch of his bedroom. Weeks and weeks' worth of poems written to a man who did not, and likely never would, love him. Weeks and weeks of wasted poems. Poems that he had written, but would never write again. Poems that could have been about so many lovely things; the moon, the stars in the sky, flowers in the Luxembourg, swans in the Seine, children playing in the streets, the future Republic.

But all these poems were instead sad, all written to Martin, all written about the perfection of Martin, and the extraordinariness of the fan maker who was so, so much more.

Jehan suddenly realized he rather hated these poems. These poems would only break his heart over and over again every time he read them. These poems ought to disappear. He ought to burn these poems. Yes, that's what he would do, burn them all. Burn them and forget Martin.

Jehan slowly began gathering his poems. Bundling them into haphazard piles, and throwing them in the general direction of the stove in his room.

He saw all the words, those words that seemed so beautiful, he'd written about Martin. He hated those words now, every single one of them. He hated them simply because he could not hate Martin.

But Martin didn't matter anymore, not now. Not now that Jehan knew the man hated him. He still loved Martin, though, he would always love Martin. No matter how many times Martin spurned or insulted him, no matter how much Martin hated him.

Jehan finished gathering his whole collection of poems written to Martin. He resolutely opened the door to the stove, feeling numb, not angry, not sad, but numb.

He fed the first of the poems into the stove, watching blindly as the flames consumed the hated words and verses. Perhaps the flames could even burn away his love for Martin along with his poems, he thought.

The next batch was fed into the ever increasing inferno. The flames continued to burn away the record of weeks of his depression. Jehan stared at the fire, and began to realize exactly what he was doing.

He was burning his poems, burning his love for Martin. Oh god. He couldn't do that.

Jehan frantically reached into the stove, nearly burning his hand as he tried to grasp the remains of the recently burned poems. No, no! He had to stop this. How could he be so stupid? Why had he decided to burn the poems? Why was he burning what was left of Martin?

His hand was covered with ashes from his burned poems as he drew it empty out of the stove. He had never felt like such an idiot.

Jehan slammed the stove closed, feeling as if he could scream from his stupidity. Why had he burned the poems? Why couldn't he ever think?

A knock on the door made him jump, and Jehan cursed as he glared at the door. Had Combeferre decided to come back?

"Jehan, it's Courfeyrac. It's me, François. Let me in? Or are you really sick?" Courfeyrac's voice jested from the closed door.

Courfeyrac. Wonderful, just wonderful. Courfeyrac was just the person Jehan would've wanted to see when he was this depressed, this angry. Courfeyrac would just joke at his problems, and call him a lovesick idiot, as if he hadn't called himself that enough since that awful morning yesterday.

"Jehan? Are you in?"

Jehan glanced at himself in the mirror over his bureau accidently, but looked away, fearing to look too deeply into the sadness he saw in the reflection, then answered, "I feel awful, François. Go away."

There was a pause from the door, "Just let me in, Jehan." Courfeyrac no longer sounded so jovial.

"Go away," He coughed for effect here, "I'm sick. I'm contagious. I don't want to see anyone."

Courfeyrac laughed from behind the closed door, "Right, you're sick! And I'm the Emperor of Prussia. Now, open the door and let me in!"

Jehan hated Courfeyrac's sarcasm at the moment, "No. Go away. I'm not opening the door, and I am sick." He was sick, heartsick.

Courfeyrac sighed in an overly dramatic exasperated way, "All right, if you want to be sick, you are." A long pause, "But do you know what 'Ferre told me?" Another pause. How could Jehan know what Combeferre had told anyone? "He said you were just depressed, and pretending to be sick. Isn't that true, Jehan? That you've simply had your feelings hurt, and you're being a silly poet about the whole thing?" Sarcasm had totally overwhelmed Courfeyrac's voice by this point. "I'm going to leave now. There's no point in me staying if you should only stay on that side of the door, locked in your little room, pretending to be sick." Courfeyrac paused again, then said, quietly, "The next meeting's on Wednesday. If you're feeling 'better' you ought to go. At least you can save face, and pretend you were sick and have recovered since. Or you can stay here and be depressed. But, you know Jehan, a good Romantic is naught but enthusiastic about life, and this little bout of depression may just ruin your Romantic façade." Jehan still didn't answer. "Your choice. Good-bye, Monsieur Prouvaire."

Jehan could hear Courfeyrac walking back down the hall. He hated it when Courfeyrac treated him as if he were only a silly child, concerned only about his poetry and appearing properly Romantic.

He would go to the next meeting, if only just for the possibility of seeing Martin again. But he wouldn't speak to Courfeyrac, he decided. At least not until Courfeyrac apologized for that blatant bit of manipulation. For once, he wasn't going to let Courfeyrac slide by on his charm. Not this time, not when Courfeyrac had actually mocked Jehan for being depressed over the loss of the truest love he could think of, his love of Martin.

As Jehan thought Martin's name, he realized that he had no poems left. He'd really burned all his poems about Martin. He couldn't bear the thought of that bit of idiocy, and sunk down on his bed again (much to the chagrin of Agnes, who has still hiding under the bed), too sad, and too angry, to even cry.

Courfeyrac left Jehan's boardinghouse, feeling rather satisfied in the knowledge that Jehan would definitely be coming to the next meeting. Enjolras was quite wrong about Jehan, it seemed. The poet hadn't put up the least bit of a fight when Courfeyrac had mocked his 'illness'. Jehan was still meek, silly Jehan, no matter what Enjolras thought. And Courfeyrac was rather intent on having the poet at the meetings so that he could test Enjolras' idiotic theory, and hopefully, for once, prove Fearless Leader wrong.

**Hope you liked it. Please, as always, review. Those who review will receive cookies, or brownies, or something.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Now, it's time for Enjolras' first chapter. **

**And another bit from our favorite fan maker. **

**Disclaimer: Was Hugo ever called "Prouvaire" by his mother because he was wearing plaid rain boots, a non-matching plaid skirt, and discussing Yeats in reference to Irish political issues? Yeah, didn't think so. So thusly, I am not dear old Victor.**

**Now, story time.**

Chapter 8

Enjolras hesitated a moment before knocking on Feuilly's door. He couldn't believe how dark and grey the tenement was. It barely seemed an adequate place to exist, let alone to live. Only with the Republic would the poor finally have decent housing, jobs with adequate wages, and passable educations.

Feuilly called, "I'm in, Ma'am Brajeux," before swinging open the door. He stopped short as he saw Enjolras, then automatically tried to close the door the door on him. Enjolras, however, stepped into the room before Feuilly had managed to shut the door and shut him out.

"Monsieur Enjolras," Feuilly's tone was at least as cold as Combeferre had told Enjolras, "I suppose it would be useless to ask you to leave?"

Enjolras gestured to the bed, implying Feuilly ought to sit, but Feuilly simply crossed his arms and glared at Enjolras, standing resolutely by the door.

"Don't call me Monsieur," Enjolras removed his hat and laid it on the barely surviving chair by the door, "We're all equals in the Republic."

"But the Republic doesn't exist, Monsieur," Feuilly's tone dripped with patronizing ice, "Students like you will always have francs, and poor workers like me will always get screwed."

Enjolras instinctively winced at Feuilly's rough criticism of his class, "Feuilly, you must let us help you. We can find you another job. Jean has connections-"

"Don't," Feuilly looked livid, but also as if he were extremely hurt, "Don't even think of having any one of the pampered bastards you've formed your 'Republic' with offer me help. They're all the same."

Enjolras gave Feuilly a rather frightening look, "We are not all the same. Les Amis endeavor to help all citizens live lives that are respectable, profitable to each man, and help the formation of our proposed Republic." Why on earth would Feuilly never believe that Les Amis were really working for those without help? Why did he always think they wanted to screw him over instead of truly offering him help? "We will help you find another job, we will help you pay your rent until you find one. We will help you."

Enjolras had expected Feuilly to give in to his commands the way all the others would, but Feuilly's features twisted into a mess of anger, "You will pity me! You all pity the poor fan maker, and I'm not even the fan maker anymore, I'm just poor. I'm just the poor, stupid street rat all you bourgeois bastards can pity whenever you feel like you ought to actually do something to help the poor." Feuilly's tone was horribly resentful, and he had uncrossed his arms, clenching his hands into fists.

"Feuilly, I- we do not pity you. You are a man who has worked his way from a life on the streets to a life as an educated, highly skilled workman. If anything, we all believe you to be one of the best men we know, and will still believe you to be so, whether you are poor or wealthy. We do not, and will never, pity you," Enjolras tried to soften his voice a bit as he said this, fearing that his usual harshness would anger Feuilly even further, "Feuilly, if you think we would pity you, and not truly care about your welfare, you do not understand what the Republic stands for, or even what the Republic is. If we were to help you, you would not be indebted to any of us. We are all equals in the Republic, and must share what little we have with our Republican brothers."

Feuilly simply glared back at him, "Monsieur, do not patronize me. I am not a student to be placated by your pretty words. I am not a poor child to whom you can blindly give a few francs, then abandon to the streets again," Feuilly gestured toward the doorway with a sharply clenched fist, "Monsieur, I have decided to resign my position as your lieutenant in the 'Republic'. Now, I must ask you to remove your presence from my flat."

Enjolras straightened himself to his full height, "Feuilly, we will help you, but we can only help those who will let us help them." Feuilly gestured toward the door again, looking as if he might like to punch Enjolras. "If you should feel like coming back, we shall continue to meet on Wednesdays." He replaced his hat on his head, "I hope we shall see you there, I would hate to lose one of my top lieutenants over something as asinine as your foolish pride." He turned toward the door and walked toward it.

Enjolras paused in the doorway before he exited Feuilly's room entirely, "I would've thought you'd let us help you. But I can now see you really don't care as much about the Republic as I thought you did." Enjolras saluted Feuilly stiffly and walked out.

Enjolras didn't hear the door close behind him, but decided not to look back. Feuilly would either come to his senses and or he would not, and Enjolras had done what he could. Perhaps he had not touched Feuilly as deeply as he thought he had if the fan maker really did not understand that they did not pity him, but only wanted to help him as all men should help their citizen brothers. Perhaps it would be better if Feuilly did not allow them to help him and did not come back to Les Amis. Perhaps Feuilly was not the revolutionary Enjolras had believed him to be.

Feuilly could not believe Enjolras had actually come to visit him. Perhaps Enjolras, at least, really did care about the welfare of the people.

No, Feuilly would not allow himself to think of any goodness in these students who he'd spent so much time with. It was better to move on from these pampered, pathetic seducers. Feuilly would never go back to one of those meetings; he would cut ties with all of the students, never allow himself to be hurt by any of these rich bastards again.

So what if Enjolras claimed he didn't care about the Republic? Maybe he just didn't care for the 'revolutionaries' Enjolras had gathered around him, students who were all gathered to fight for the people. As if they knew anything about the plight of the people, as if they could ever do anything but pity the poor they would never be able to understand. He hated Jehan, he hated Courfeyrac, he hated them all for their pitying promises of help.

Feuilly crossed the room to finally shut his door and nearly slammed it in the face of Ma'am Brajeux. His landlady entered his tiny and dismal flat and gave Feuilly a glare that would've chilled him to the bone had he not just had an argument with Enjolras.

"Did I hear your student friend correctly?" Ma'am Brajeux wheezed coldly at Feuilly, glancing around his room as if evaluating it for the next paying customer, "Are you out of a job? Rent's due today, job or no."

Feuilly gulped uncomfortably to avoid answering, and looked down at his feet. His rent was due today, but he'd been hoping Ma'am Brajeux would forget to collect payment the way she sometimes did. It seemed that the heavens above would not even allow him the tiniest stroke of luck, that they were merely intent on the destruction of the fragile world he'd barely managed to build.

"So, do you have the rent?" Ma'am Brajeux obviously wouldn't be giving up until she either collected his weekly rent payment or freed up his room for a new tenant. Feuilly, unfortunately, had been let go without his last week's payment. He hadn't eaten more than the old crusts of bread he'd found in his bureau for the past day, and unless he started selling the furniture in his room (that wasn't actually his), he would have no way to pay for the last week he'd spent in his flat.

"Ma'am," Feuilly had no idea if he even had a chance of talking Ma'am Brajeux into letting him stay until he could pay rent, "Please, I do not have a position right now, but I could get one within the next week. Please, Ma'am, if you would only let me stay till then."

Ma'am Brajeux's face automatically registered disproval, and Feuilly knew he would be kicked out then and there, "Do you even have payment for the last week?"

Feuilly looked down and could feel himself blushing as Jehan would've. Ma'am Brajeux screwed her wizened features into a mask of anger and outrage, "You owe me three francs for the last week." Feuilly nodded blankly, out of a job for two days, and already three francs in debt. Was there no way out of his collapsing life?

"I want you out, M. Feuilly. Today." Ma'am Brajeux turned and walked out of Feuilly's room, "And if you should not pay the three francs within the next week, I'll report it to the Precinct."

Damn. Damn. Damn. Feuilly tore open the top drawer of his bureau and gathered his few possessions. Now he was not only out of his job and Les Amis, but he was out of a flat, back to living on the streets and barely surviving on the few scraps of food and coins he could find in the gutters. Back to living out in the cold with no money for paper to sketch on, and with no possibility of saving enough money to move back into a flat or to even pay back Ma'am Brajeux. And it sounded like his former landlady was rather intent on sending him to prison for his debt to her. So, all in all, his life seemed to be descending into the hell he'd lived in before that he likely would not escape from again.

Feuilly pulled a final piece of paper out of the bureau drawer and saw the sketch he'd made a few months ago of a meeting at the Musain. He almost smiled as he looked over it; Jehan at his corner table, scribbling away at one of his poems; Combeferre and Enjolras sitting at their table, deep in conversation; Joly laughing as Bossuet fumbled with a bottle of wine; Grantaire moping in his corner, glaring toward Enjolras and Combeferre in his usual jealous pout; and Courfeyrac.

Feuilly frowned instinctively. Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac had nearly gotten him to leave Les Amis with his damned pity before. And Jehan, Combeferre, and Enjolras had pitied him (seduced him, too) into leaving Les Amis forever.

Feuilly glared at the sketch for a moment, then ripped it cleanly in two. It was better to have no happy memories left of Les Amis. He would never think about going back this way.

Feuilly gathered his few things into his coat pockets, and, leaving the torn sketch scattered in the dirt on the floor, leaving the pity and seductions of Les Amis in the dirt as well, walked out of his room for the last time.

It was back to the streets for him, and in a way, he thought it was most likely his fault for even attempting to meddle in the affairs of those classes above his own.

**That's all for now. Please, please review! I love people who review very, very, very much. Liked it or hated it, I'd still like to know what anyone reading this thinks. **


	9. Chapter 9

_I am very, very, very sorry for the lack of updates for so long. But, I got the files off my hard drive (Thank you so, so much, Ger!)! I still don't have a computer, but I'm borrowing dad's to update. I'll be putting up the other chapters left in the story as I have a chance to do final edits on all of them, but "Cheurs" should be completed fairly soon. Thanks for sticking with the story and reviewing!_

_Disclaimer: Does my driver's license say Victor Hugo? Does my passport?_

_Now, Courfeyrac's turn. And he might actually be in a serious mood this time *gasp*_

Chapter 9

Jehan came to the next meeting of Les Amis, shuffling sadly into the back room, and glaring at all who approached. He was far more subdued than usual, dressed in modern clothing, not even bringing his usual book of poetical scribbling with him; though he did, Courfeyrac noted with a slight twinge of regret over yelling at the poet, look somewhat sick.

Courfeyrac had greeted Jehan with an exceptionally warm embrace-which the poet did not return-, then steered the poet over to the table Courfeyrac was sharing with Joly and Bossuet, much to the poet's chagrin. As Courfeyrac shoved him into a chair, Jehan gave him a long, cold look that clearly said, 'I'm here, all right, François. Now will you leave me alone?'

Jehan had simply sat in the chair Courfeyrac shoved him into, looking everywhere but at the young men seated at the table, and clasping his hands somewhat wretchedly in his lap. But at least he was here. Here and not moping about his room, becoming sadder and sadder until he was far past help.

Joly, who had contracted a fairly bad cold the previous day, was having a fairly lively argument with Bossuet about the importance of rotating one's bed with the feet to the north and the head to the south to help the body's natural magnetism to circulate correctly. Bossuet didn't believe a word of it, and, consistently turning to Courfeyrac for support, was making this quite clear in his witty retorts to Joly's 'sound, medical reasoning'. The pair very even more entertaining than usual this evening as Joly's stuffy nose was distorting nearly everything out of the hypochondriac's mouth. Bahorel, sitting at the next table, was quite entertained by this spectacle, and even Combeferre was grinning in a rather amused way. Jehan, however, had not laughed at the ever amusing pair, nor smiled once, nor even looked at the verbally fencing pair.

Courfeyrac sat beside Jehan, frowning absently at him. Perhaps he had been wrong, perhaps the poet wasn't simply feeling sad about something silly and truly was sick. Jehan stared down into his lap now, still ignoring everything around him.

Combeferre seemed to have noticed how subdued and simply sad Jehan seemed, too. He cast a worried glance at Courfeyrac over the poet's head, then stood and made his way over to the table.

"Jehan?" Joly and Bossuet ignored Combeferre's gentle intrusion in favor continuing to entertain the room with their wit. Jehan didn't look up. "Jehan?"

Jehan looked up this time, not actually looking at Combeferre, but at least looking up instead of desolately in his lap.

"How are you?" Combeferre pulled a chair over to the table, sitting directly in front of Jehan. Courfeyrac turned away from Joly and Bossuet to give Jehan an encouraging smile, which was met with the same cold look as before.

Jehan hesitated for a moment before answering, then grimaced slightly, "Sick, still, I think." Jehan sounded horribly dejected and churlishly upset as he answered. Courfeyrac patted his shoulder, and, though Jehan didn't pull away, the poet did tense beneath his hand.

"Perhaps you would like Joly or me to take a look at you? Make sure it's nothing serious?" Joly looked over as Combeferre uttered his name, taking in Jehan's white face, drawn features, and sunken, red eyes with what could only be called a fearful curiosity.

"Mon Dieu, Jehab! You loob libe t' devil!" A short pause, Joly pulled his doctor's bag up from under the table, "You musb leb be eshabine you, mabe sure 't isn't contabious."Courfeyrac coughed back a laugh at Joly's insistence at examining Jehan only to make sure the poet would not pass on whatever he had contracted to him. Courfeyrac could just imagine Joly examining a patient one day, then prescribing himself a double dose of whatever he had prescribed the patient, just to make sure he'd not contract whatever horribly contagious disease the patient had come in with.

Jehan shook his head sadly, refusing to look at Joly.

Joly looked horrified, "Bu-bu-but, you bight be… contabious."The last word was said with such a seriousness that Courfeyrac could not bite back his laugh, and was consequently met with an angry glare from Joly.

Combeferre shook his head slightly, as if to say 'Mon amis, please act sensibly for once, our poet's clearly not well', then said gently to Jehan, "You ought to let him examine you, Jehan. You really don't look well."

Jehan shook his head again, staring down into his lap, now, and looking somewhat angry, "I'm fine. Just a little sick." He sounded exceptionally irritated now.

Joly, however, having not listened to a thing Jehan said, was currently prodding along the poet's chest and neck, looking for swellings or odd colorations of any kind. Jehan shoved his hands away with unusual force, "I'm fine! I'll be better soon! Let me alone!" The poet sounded unusually angry and irritable, almost as if he hadn't slept in quite a while.

Joly, shocked, pulled his hands back, "I'b sorry."

Jehan frowned a little, and looked down, as if he were embarrassed by his outburst, "I shouldn't have yelled. I'm sorry." A long pause. "I'm just sick and tired." Jehan seemed to retreat into himself after saying this, as if he were afraid of offending anyone else, or even talking. Courfeyrac reached over to pat the poet's shoulder again, but Jehan pulled away, looking into his lap even more fiercely than before. Bossuet turned to Joly and drew him back into their previous playful exchange, Joly's look of shock and concern quickly changed back to his usual mask of good humor and jolliness.

Combeferre frowned over at Courfeyrac, as if he were also wondering what was really wrong with the poet. Courfeyrac really was starting to feel rather guilty for goading Jehan into coming back to meetings only so he could test Enjolras' theory. Jehan clearly was in a bad state, and Courfeyrac realized now, with another twinge of regret, that mocking Jehan and being angry with him a few days before had probably not been exactly the best way to convince Jehan to get over his supposed 'depression' and 'illness'. But at least he was at the meeting now, and not avoiding everyone like he had been until today….

Combeferre gave Courfeyrac a half scowl, as if reading his thoughts and admonishing him for his treatment of Jehan last week now that it was exceptionally obvious that something really was wrong with the poet.

Combeferre shook his head slightly to himself, then turned to Courfeyrac, "I went to Feuilly's tenement again yesterday. He's been kicked out, François. Landlady has no idea where he's gone." Courfeyrac noticed Jehan looking back up, now, his face gone quite white and his features drawn into a tensed mask. "He still owed her a week's rent, so I paid it for him. But it seems he's vanished again." Combeferre was frowning, and Jehan was gazing at him in almost horror.

Courfeyrac felt confused. The last time Feuilly'd vanished had been after, well, after that disastrous night when Courfeyrac had so offended him, that awful night, full of shouts and anger and painful words that would never be taken away, the night that had ended their affair. Feuilly had run away for months that time, only coming back to meetings when Enjolras had managed to find his address and force him back to Les Amis, and even now, or at least the time Courfeyrac had seen him, Feuilly still refused to acknowledge he existed, often left a table if Courfeyrac came over, would sometimes have horribly bitter, hurt looks on face when he thought no one was looking. What, who, on earth had so hurt Feuilly this time, so destroyed him, that Feuilly had felt the need to leave Les Amis for a second time? And why in the hell did Jehan look so upset?

Combeferre was regarding him seriously, "Did anything happen, François? Anything like the last time?"

Courfeyrac cast a quick look at Jehan, who still looked as if his world were collapsing around him, and considered for a moment before answering. They'd kept the real reason Feuilly had left Les Amis the last time very quiet, in an effort not to hurt Feuilly's pride any more than it already had been, and while Combeferre was quite intimate in the details of the disaster, Jehan hadn't even lived in Paris at the time and, since he'd so bonded with Feuilly at one of his first few meetings, Courfeyrac had seen no need to tell him about it, better to let Feuilly tell the poet himself, if he ever felt the need.

Courfeyrac shook his head in Jehan's direction subtly, implying they should not discuss this around the unknowing poet, but tried to clearly say, 'No, I wouldn't do that again' with his eyes. Combeferre studied him for a moment before nodding.

"Julian isn't pleased about it." Combeferre sounded concerned, of course, but as if he were rather tired of talking about Feuilly, as if he'd been having endless conversations about the fan maker with Fearless Leader over the past few days. "He didn't want to lose Feuilly again, and he's been extremely helpful in our communications with the other workmen." Combeferre cast a glance at Jehan after saying this, Jehan looked still so horribly upset. Courfeyrac knew he was close to Feuilly, but it shouldn't have affected the poet this much.

"So, no one knows where Martin is, or if he's even alive?" Jehan was obviously trying to stay calm. "Is anyone trying to find him? Can we help him?"

Jehan sounded so earnest, so upset, so scared, that Courfeyrac felt awful saying what he said next, "Jehan, I know you're close to Feuilly, but if he disappears, he really doesn't want to be found. And he won't be found. We just have to wait for Enjolras to get fed up enough to track down his address or for him to feel like he can come back." He patted the poet's shoulder sympathetically. Jehan pulled away with violence, looking quite as if he were blaming himself for this. Courfeyrac turned carefully towards Combeferre, clearly addressing him, "But I do wander why he left. I can see no reason to spur him away."

Combeferre nodded, frowning again. Jehan looked down, guilty, scared, " 'S my fault. Shouldn't have…"

Courfeyrac exchanged a confused look with Combeferre. There was nothing the gentle poet could have possibly done to offend Feuilly into leaving again. "Jehan, I know you were quite close with Feuilly, but you can't have possibly convinced him into leaving."

Jehan looked positively wretched, and Combeferre reached over to feel his forehead, "Are you feverish, Jehan? You look perfectly awful."

Courfeyrac stood and placed his hand gently on Jehan's shoulder. Perhaps the poet really was sick, perhaps that was why he seemed to be blaming himself for Feuilly's latest disappearance, "Come on, Jehan, I'll walk you home."

Jehan stood, but pushed Courfeyrac away, "I'll go home on my own. Thank you." He nodded politely, but coldly, to Combeferre and Courfeyrac, then walked out of the backroom.

Combeferre frowned at Jehan's retreating figure, "I'm almost positive he's not actually sick, but you would think it, wouldn't you, watching him? I'm sure he can't have done anything like you did to Feuilly. I mean, the boy's never even had a mistress, he wouldn't try to seduce a man."

Courfeyrac shook his head, still feeling quite confused, "But he's obviously blaming himself for it, isn't he?"

Combeferre nodded, then, almost to himself, "He's taking Feuilly's leaving rather hard, isn't he? Almost as if it's broken his heart or…"

Courfeyrac nodded when Combeferre trailed off. It did seem as if Jehan's heart were broken, now that Courfeyrac had actually seen him. He wondered again if he hadn't been too hard on the poet when he'd visited him a few days ago. Perhaps Jehan hadn't been blowing whatever it was out of proportion; perhaps Jehan truly was depressed this time, even making himself sick. But now, at least, Courfeyrac reminded himself, Jehan would be coming to meetings instead of ignoring everyone and crying in his room, and now, at least, they might be able to cheer Jehan up, to bring the poet out of his depression.

Jehan somehow made it home by himself. He wasn't sure afterward, how he'd done that, how he'd managed to do anything, now that he knew Martin was gone for good. Now that his heart had broken into even more pieces.

Martin was gone. Gone. And all because of Jehan's stupid kiss. He slammed the door to his flat shut, cursing himself for that kiss. Why had he kissed Martin? If only he hadn't, if only Martin were still here.

Jehan looked around his flat, hating his solitude, but hating the boisterous atmosphere of Le Musain and the sympathy and concern everyone showed him even more. As if he even deserved sympathy or concern after driving away Martin. No matter what Courfeyrac said, Jehan knew it was truly his fault Martin was gone. Why, why, why had he done that?

Jehan sat on the bed, feeling the full weight of his solitude, of his guilt, of his horror at having so hurt Martin. He couldn't believe he'd hurt Martin enough that the man never wanted to see him again, was most likely disgusted by him.

And now there was no way he could help Martin. If he hadn't kissed Martin, perhaps the fan maker would've let him pay his rent, or even moved in with him, or let Jehan help him find another job, or just let Jehan take care of him in whatever way he could. But now he would not. Jehan hated himself now, more than he ever had before.

What reason was there even to go to meetings now? Now that Martin would no longer be there, now that Martin would likely never come back. Now that he would just have to listen to everyone talk about Martin, fear speaking up for fear they would scorn him if they knew the truth, knew how he'd hurt Martin, knew how he'd forced Martin to leave.

Jehan lay down on the bed, not even bothering to remove his shoes or cravat. Why was he even bothering to lie down, when he hadn't slept a single night since that awful morning? That horrible, awful, guilt-ridden morning, that morning he couldn't remember without wanting to throw himself in the Seine.

Now, after that horrible morning, after Jehan's idiocy, Martin was gone, jobless, most likely homeless, living in the streets, probably starving and freezing, refusing help of any kind, all because of Jehan.

And, after what Courfeyrac had said, Jehan knew there was no chance of finding Martin, of apologizing, of offering him help again, of ever even seeing Martin. If only he could find the man, if only he could reverse his idiocy, if only he could fix the terrible, terrible thing he'd done to Martin.

He lay his head on the pillow, wishing he could cry, but knowing all his tears were long spent, and, in any case, he did not deserve to cry, did not deserve to do anything to lessen the horrible pain that had taken residence in his heart.

Jehan hated himself for doing this to Martin. He only wished he had some way of paying penance for his crime.

_Well, that was a dark chapter, at least from Jehan's perspective. Sorry, I just had to say it. Please, please, please review, it'll make Jehan happier, hopefully. (Specific notes about what you like/don't like about specific characters are very, very, very much appreciated).Thank you! _


	10. Chapter 10

_Hey everyone! Please enjoy this chapter, and please, please, please, please, please review. I'll have the rest of this story up as soon as I finish editing it. Also, if you need happy Jehan/ Feuilly after reading this stuff, I have three fairly fluffy one shots (hint, hint). Thank you for reading! _

_Disclaimer: If I were Hugo, I'd likely be a much more brilliant person, and a far better writer. _

Chapter 10

Weeks passed, and Martin did not return. Weeks passed, and Jehan tried to convince himself that he was not responsible for Martin's disappearance. Weeks passed, and Jehan tried to convince himself he did not love Martin. Weeks passed, and Jehan no longer talked during meetings, not even when Courfeyrac insulted de Chenier nor when Bossuet accidently read one of Jehan's poems aloud. Weeks passed, and Combeferre worried about Jehan more and more. Weeks passed, and Courfeyrac tried literally everything he could think of (even spending time with Agnes) to cheer Jehan up. Weeks passed, and Enjolras became more and more annoyed with Jehan, and less and less lenient with him during meetings. Jehan did not seem to notice neither his friends' concern nor Fearless Leader's annoyance with him. Jehan didn't seem to notice much of anything.

Jehan was still feeling quite depressed, distraught, diminished, when Enjolras called that night's meeting to order. He had made sure to spread his usual mess of papers across the table in his corner, and hunched into himself to assure he would be left alone for the meeting. He could never do with talking to anyone anymore, not when all they wanted to do was cheer him up. As if he deserved to be cheered up, didn't deserve this heartbreak.

Jehan had been doodling sadly into a scrap of paper-doodling made him feel as if Martin were still here, sketching everyone at his usual corner table, as if he just doodled enough, Martin would reappear, and all would be right- for about half of the meeting when Enjolras realized one of his lieutenants wasn't exactly concentrating on the map he was presenting of liberal gatherings in Paris.

"Prouvaire!" Enjolras said his name incredibly sharply, causing Jehan to jump and scramble to hide the doodled-upon scrap, "Would you care to pay attention?"

Jehan could feel himself blushing as he gazed down at the table. In that moment, he wasn't really so sure why he bothered coming to meetings anymore. Enjolras had become far less tolerant of him the longer his horrid heartbreak lasted, and everyone else simply tried too hard to make him happy. Every meeting hurt more, Jehan thought to himself, knowing that he couldn't tell anyone why he was so sad, why he deserved to be so sad.

"Well, Prouvaire, are you going to pay attention, or would you be happier to be excused from this meeting?" Enjolras sounded distinctively cold, displeased as Jehan gazed down at the table again. Jehan felt himself to be one of the worst disappointments in the world as Enjolras gave him a long, coldly angry glare. And Jehan knew, in a way, he truly was.

Combeferre decided he ought to intercede before the poet was yelled at, "Perhaps we ought to pause for a few moments, Julian? Let everyone have a break." He shot Fearless Leader a 'Let me go talk to him' glance.

Enjolras nodded his consent and went over to Bahorel's table to discuss gathering the Polytechnicians. Combeferre made his way over to Jehan's table quickly.

"Jehan," Jehan did not look up at the sound of Combeferre's voice. He hated talking to any of them anymore. Another try, "Jehan?"

Jehan looked down still, not wanting to answer, murmuring, "Ettiene?"

Combeferre cleared his throat in that way that implied this would be a long, serious conversation. Jehan did not want have to a serious conversation. "Jehan, what ever is wrong? I know we've not mentioned it to you, but something is clearly wrong and we are all concerned. Everyone has been trying so hard to cheer you up, and yet you've still been so subdued, so sad lately. I feel it's time to hit the nail on the head now, Jehan. Tell me what's wrong." Combeferre sat, and adjusted his glasses in his most serious manner.

Jehan looked down at the table again. What was wrong? Everything! He'd driven Martin away, most likely made Martin homeless, he'd most likely never see Martin again, and his damnably stupid, fragile heart was broken into more pieces than he could ever possibly count. But he couldn't tell Combeferre that, couldn't admit his crime to these men. He blinked his eyes slowly, willing the lie to come easier this time, then glanced up at Combeferre, "Nothing. I'm just… not feeling well."

Combeferre looked at him rather disbelievingly, re-adjusting his glasses and sinking into his chair as if readying himself for a particularly difficult debate, "So nothing at all is wrong, besides your health?" A long pause. "Jehan, when will you stop with the lies?" Jehan still wouldn't look at Combeferre, he would never stop the lies; if he did, if he admitted what had happened, he felt as if he would truly lose Martin. "Jehan, what is wrong?"

Jehan began gathering his things rather resolutely instead of answering, there was no way he would ever tell Combeferre what'd really happened, "I think I'll go. I don't believe I'll be able to pay any further attention tonight."

Combeferre nodded to himself and re-adjusted his glasses, "Jehan, ignoring the problem will not make it disappear. We all want to see you happy again, but you must help us."

Jehan turned away, not wanting help from his friends and feeling as if he were far past it in any sense. He stood and walked slowly out of the cafe, ignoring Courfeyrac's friendly shout as he reached the door.

Feuilly had been sitting restlessly in the back alley where he'd been living in the weeks since Ma'am Brajeux had kicked him out of his flat when he coughed in that horrible, wracking way he developed after that rain-storm for what felt like the thousandth time that day. The rain storm had been a week ago- or was it three days? He'd began to lose a solid sense of time as he acquiesced to life on the streets. Time didn't particularly matter when one was always starving, better to ignore it, not count the days since he'd last had a meal, last slept indoors.

He felt always hot-and-cold since that rain storm-however long ago it had been-, as if he were feverish and freezing at the same time, or maybe just feverish? It was all too confusing when all he wanted was food, a place to sleep. Maybe he had been stupid to break off with Les Amis, refuse all offers of help. Maybe he should just go back, ask them to- No, no, no.

Feuilly coughed again, the violent movement of his hacking coursing through his body and making everywhere ache a thousand times more. Perhaps he really was sick. Was he really sick? If he were truly sick, he would go see Joly or Combeferre- no, he would not see Joly or Combeferre or any of them. It had been weeks since he'd permanently broken off contact with the group of students, and his anger had faded a bit since then.

Perhaps he was being an idiot, a prideful fool; perhaps Jehan had only meant a true affection, love, by that kiss, had not meant to seduce him. Perhaps Jehan was not a bit like that bastard Courfeyrac. Perhaps- No, no, no. All those students were the same, even the poet who had seemed so gentle and honest.

Feuilly coughed again, and realized he had a headache that made thinking nearly impossible.

Maybe he ought to just go back and- No, no, no. He would never go back. They didn't really want to help him; he tried to remind himself, they just wanted to feel like they were helping the poor by giving a little money to one poor fan maker. This phrase, the one he'd been repeating to himself over and over again over the past few weeks, when he'd been contemplating going back to Les Amis, asking them for help, telling them he'd been an idiot, was beginning sound a bit stupid, even to him.

Perhaps he just ought to go back- No, no. Never. Besides, he likely wasn't welcome back anyway, not after what he'd said to Enjolras, not after what he'd done to Jehan. They likely all thought he was an ungrateful upstart who had never been a true revolutionary.

No, Feuilly'd never go back, never would admit he'd been far too proud for not only his own good but for his class in life. But when he had nothing else in the world, shouldn't he be allowed to cling to his pride? The one thing he didn't need francs or a position in a workshop to have?

Feuilly coughed again. Damn. He was sick. He was sick; he was utterly alone in the world, having nothing, no one, but his pride. He'd made his choice, however damnable it seemed to him now, and he would never go back, he would die on the streets first. And, the ways thing had been going, he would probably die sooner than he'd ever expected.

_Hope you enjoyed it! Please, please, please review. Reviews will make Feuilly feel much, much better. _


	11. Chapter 11

_Mes Amis, we are very near the end of "Cheurs" now. I have only two chapters left to post now, but those will have to wait for a little while, as I am sharing this computer. Please enjoy, and please, please, please, review!_

_Disclaimer: Did Hugo think that a certain pair of French boys definitely deserve each other? I'm pretty sure that revolutions M. Hugo made in his grave after I typed that question would power a fairly large city. My apologies, dear Victor._

_Now, it's Courfeyrac's turn again. _

Chapter 11

Courfeyrac had slipped out of the backroom to follow the poet after a rather depressed looking Jehan had ignored his friendly inquiry into the poet's state of mind. What in the hell was wrong with the poet?

"Jehan!" The poet continued down the passageway as if he had not heard Courfeyrac. He was ever pretending not to hear his friends lately. Courfeyrac'd had just about enough of the poet's depression in the last few weeks. He would know what was wrong with Jehan, and he would know now. He didn't give a damn if Jehan felt like telling him. This had gone on long enough.

"Don't ignore me!" Jehan, however, continued to ignore Courfeyrac. Damnable, stubborn poet.

"Stop!" No response whatsoever. Courfeyrac broke into a run. Jehan would be telling him what on earth was upsetting him so before he left tonight.

"Halt!" Courfeyrac finally caught up with Jehan and grabbed the poet's arm. Something was obviously wrong with the poet, even if he didn't want to admit it. Why, Jehan had even dressed in modern clothing and dull colours and written any poetry for the past few weeks. He just came to meetings and looked sadly at the table, doodling incessantly and desolately onto scraps of paper, never speaking, never even looking about in his usual dreamish way. "Jehan, what on earth is wrong?"

Jehan stopped, but looked at the ground instead of Courfeyrac.

"Answer me, Jehan," Courfeyrac examined the silent poet quickly, "You're in love, aren't you? She doesn't love you, does she?" Jehan was still silent, but had turned rather white instead of blushing like usual. "Tell me, Jehan. I can help with things like this."

Jehan looked at the ground and mumbled something, trying to loosen Courfeyrac's grip on his arm.

"What was that?" Jehan glared at the ground and struggled again, "If you tell me, I'll let you go."

Jehan glared at the ground again, then said quietly, irritatedly, but also in an extremely hurt yet, relieved way, as if he'd been waiting years to say it, "Yes. All right, I'm in love. Let me go now?" So that was what the poet had been moping about for the past few weeks. Jehan was in love, or had been, and was most likely either pining for his love, or terribly heart broken. Now, to find out which it was.

Courfeyrac steered Jehan over to the edge of the passageway, and shoved the poet into a chair, "And she doesn't love you?"

"He"

"What was that?" Courfeyrac hovered directly in front of Jehan and looked down at the poet, who continued to stare resolutely at the floor. He could've sworn Jehan had just said 'He'. But, as Combeferre had said, the boy'd never even had a mistress, surely he wasn't in love with a man, surely innocent, honest Jehan was not considering sedition.

"He," Jehan repeated, his features, his voice wrenched into horrible mirrors of pain, horror, guilt, "He doesn't love me, and he never will."

Aha! So Courfeyrac had been right in the theory he'd started to form in the past few weeks of the poet's depression, Jehan was in love with someone who could (or would?) never love him, "Does he not love you, or will he not consider loving another man? Have you asked him, Jehan?"

Jehan, still glaring at the floor, but in a much softer way now, murmured, completely heartbroken in the way he slumped his shoulders, the way his eyes darkened and withered, but sounding as if he'd so wanted, needed to tell someone what he said next, "I kissed him, and he yelled at me, Said he wasn't one of us, that he hated men like me."

Courfeyrac glanced at Jehan, and, seeing the poet like this, felt rather awful for the poet, "You know, Jehan, you should to talk to whoever he is." A long pause. Should he say this? Courfeyrac cleared his throat unpleasantly, "I… well, I had a relationship with another man a few years ago. He was rather hesitant at first, but he finally agreed to it." This part would be the hardest, perhaps he ought to explain somehow without mentioning the name, revealing Feuilly's hurt and shame to another man. But it was out of his lips before he could stop himself, before he even heard it. "It was… well… actually, the man was Feuilly, so it took quite a bit of convincing, but it finally worked out. "

Jehan looked abruptly up, even whiter than he had been before, his face strangely blank now, as if he were hurt past the point of any more pain, begging the information earnestly, showing animation for the first time in weeks, "What happened? What happened after you convinced him?"

Courfeyrac hesitated, knowing he'd never wanted to tell Jehan this, knowing he was wrong in even the revelation of the name itself, but would be even more so in the revelation of the details. But, he considered, Feuilly was gone, likely for good, and perhaps the poet would learn from his mistake, his awful, heartless misstep , "After I convinced him, we moved in together for a while. I even got him to quit his job and let me pay for all his expenses."

"Why did it end, then? Sounds like you two were quite happy together," Jehan sounded quite bitter now, but looked as blank and white as before. Jehan was glaring at the floor again, refusing to look at Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac instinctively frowned, he'd never wanted to tell anyone else about that fight they'd had that last night, never wanted to open those wounds to his heart, still seeming barely healed, ever again; the dreadful words Feuilly had shouted and not taken the time to kiss away; the way Feuilly had stormed out; the way Feuilly had never looked him in the face if he could avoid it afterwards. The memories were still painful, as if that night had only been the week before, and Courfeyrac had to steel himself to tell Jehan the next part. He'd never wanted to tell the poet this, never wanted to tell anyone this, never wanted to live it again, "I fell in love, with a pretty grisette, and he hated me for that. I even offered to still pay expenses, buy him another flat if he'd like. But he just called me a lusting bastard, and stormed out, and we… we never spoke again. He even stopped coming to meetings for months after that." A long pause. "I'm sure he still hates me." Then, in an under tone to himself, "He'll never trust another student again." The pain of that night billowed loosely, coldly, into to Courfeyrac as the memory of the only lover he'd ever had a hateful parting with, the only lover who hated him still, took over.

Jehan's eyes grew huge, his face even whiter than before, it that was possible, he looked up at Courfeyrac with a look in his features that made it seem if he'd had the largest and most painful epiphany in the world. "You idiot! You complete and total idiot!" Jehan bellowed, his voice gaining power and anger in every word, his fury more than shocking Courfeyrac, "How could you? Did you ever even think, François, that you might possibly hurt him? You idiot! You should be condemned to endless restlessness in the second circle of hell for that! Or condemned to freeze in the ninth!" Jehan stood and glared coldly at Courfeyrac, "How. Could. You? How could you! I've got to find him, tell him I'm not you!" Jehan started out of the passageway, "Goddamn you to eternal burning, Courfeyrac!" Courfeyrac felt himself being thrown into the wall as Jehan shoved past him, fiercely determined as in the fashion of Fearless Leader.

Courfeyrac slumped into the wall, still feeling the pain of his last night with Feuilly, and in complete shock at what he had awakened in the usually shy, gentle, quiet poet.

That was when Combeferre came rushing out from the backroom, "Mon Dieu, François! Who was bellowing out here? I thought only Jehan and yourself were out here!"

Courfeyrac gazed stupendously at Combeferre for a second, "That was Jehan." Only Courfeyrac really couldn't think of him as Jehan anymore, Jehan was whimsical and quiet. This new Prouvaire was rather passionate and even frightening. This new Prouvaire seemed quite strong. Who would've thought the curly-haired, doublet-ed , blushing, poetical Romantic had it in him? Courfeyrac, to be honest, was rather impressed, though he could barely feel it through the shock.

Combeferre, to Courfeyrac's complete and utter surprise, started to laugh. "Julien was right." Jehan wasn't so meek as they'd all thought, after all. "Why was he shouting like that?"

Courfeyrac was still somewhat dazed, horribly confused. Why on earth had Jehan started to yell like that when he'd told him about Feuilly? "I just told him about that… affair… with Feuilly a few years back, and he started screaming, and ran off…"

It was then Combeferre voiced what Courfeyrac realized he should have figured out long ago, "He's in love with Feuilly." A long, thoughtful pause. "Julian was completely right. If one should threaten what Jehan cares about, he really will fight for it."

_Thank you for reading! _

_Liked it? Hated it? Think I should go jump off a cliff? I don't care if you want to say hate it or you love it, just please, please, please, please review. Please? Thank you! _


	12. Chapter 12

_Hey everybody! This is the next to last chapter of "Cheurs" (I'm quite sad it's almost over, but this has quite run its course), and the next chapter is only the Epilogue, so…. _

_I hope you've enjoyed it, thus far. _

_Thank you for all the reviews! _

_Disclaimer: Did Hugo have a mild obsession with the songs "Perfect" and "In Short" from "Edges: A Song Cycle"? _

_Now, for more sick Feuilly, and a rather impassioned Jehan (yay!)_

Chapter 12

Feuilly felt sicker than he ever had. It hurt to move at all, he'd hadn't eaten in- had it been a week? Had it been two weeks? He had no way to remember, everything was blurred, confused. Everything was so cold. His fever made everything distorted, confusing. Sometimes, he swore he saw Jehan or another one of the Amis-Courfeyrac, even- and wanted to reach out to them, beg them to help him, just give up his damned pride. But they were all illusions, just the hallucinations of a fever addled brain. He had no friends, he hazily reminded himself, no one would be coming to find him here, no one would be coming to help him. And he didn't give a damn that they would not. But he could not, he would not, and he would stay here, still. He had no friends to turn to, no place to go, no one to help him, to care for him. He felt as if he would die right there.

This illness would likely kill him, he knew, if he could find no where warm to stay, still lived in his wet, torn, wretched clothing, still had no food, no fire, no place to sleep but the cold, hard, oft wet ground. If only he had somewhere to live, somewhere warm, somewhere he could at least try to recover from this awful fever, the horrid, wracking coughs that shook his body and made the world spin.

Feuilly tried to close his eyes. Perhaps he could sleep, perhaps if he did, he'd never wake again. Perhaps it would be better never to wake again, never to starve, never to freeze, never to feel so awfully feverish and helpless, hopeless.

A sudden thought hit Feuilly. He had no family, no friends, no home, not even a job. No one would miss him if he dropped dead at that moment. Perhaps he could die at that moment, take his own life. Perhaps that would be better than waiting for this illness to kill him. Perhaps it would be better than starving slowly in the streets. Perhaps he was merely feverish, irrational.

Still. It wasn't an awful idea. To shorten his death, pass easily, pass without the pain and the piteous, scornful looks from the bourgeois who passed him on the street, rather than to live out his prolonged sentence of death on the streets, starving to death, letting his illness kill him, feeling dead, but never quite dying, wasting away with the pain and the self-loathing that inhabited his brain. Perhaps he would…

He would kill himself, Feuilly decided, he'd do it now. Get it over with, just throw himself in the Seine. Drowning wasn't the most pleasant death, he well knew, but it was far better to drown and be down with it than to starve, and freeze, and cough, and eventually go to sleep, never to wake again, after what could be months of agony, suffering, Hell. It could be months of that Hell he'd never wanted to return to before he finally expired from lack of mood or medical care. Or it could be just a drop into the water, a few moments of struggling, flailing, vainly fighting the current of the Seine, then peaceful oblivion for the rest of eternity. Why, he could even do it tonight.

He would do it tonight. There was nothing to stop him, no reason to delay. He would die now, save himself weeks, months of a lingering death.

Feuilly rose unsteadily from where he sat on the ground. He swayed for a moment as he stood, trying to steady himself on the wall behind. He pushed away from the wall, hoping he still had the strength left in his body to walk to the river, praying his feverish, distorted mind would remember where to find the Seine.

Jehan ran from the Musain, abandoning his poems and papers for the first in his life, frantic with worry and guilt and anger at Courfeyrac-the idiot! He had to find Martin. He had to. He had to tell Martin that he would not abandon him the way Courfeyrac had; that he would not betray him the way the Courfeyrac had; that he loved him, that he really loved Martin!

He tore down the streets at a far faster rate than his usual slow Romantic gait. Where was Martin? Where was Martin? He wouldn't be in his boarding house, not after he'd been kicked out. But where would he be? Which street? Which corner? On which dismal street corner would he find Martin? On which cold, horrid slab of stone? By now, he didn't care where he found the man; he just had to find Martin, had to fix his mistake, had to fix Courfeyrac's mistake.

Jehan had frantically rushed down several abandoned streets with no idea where he should even begin to search by the time he started to lose his wind and very nearly his mind. How could he find Martin if he didn't even know where to run?

Where was Martin? Where was Martin? Jehan could hardly breathe, think, listen to horrid voice in his head telling him this was all his fault. It was all his fault, but now he would fix everything, he had to fix everything. If only he could find Martin…

Jehan rushed frantically on, just hoping to find Martin somewhere, anywhere; he was forced to pause as he reached that favorite bridge of his-that Romantically-antiquated-looking-stone bridge looming over the Seine- for lack of breath and possible places left to find dear, lost Martin.

He looked down the bridge, desperately trying to remember places he'd seen Martin or heard Martin talk about. He glanced down the bridge again, trying to decide whether or not he ought to cross it, trying to decide if he even had a chance of finding Martin, and saw, much to his amazement and almost disbelief, Martin.

Martin stood, barely balancing on the emaciated side of the bridge. What ever on earth was Martin doing? Why would he be standing on the side of the bridge like that-

That was when Jehan realized his dear, found Martin was planning to fall into the Seine and never come back up. Martin could not jump. Jehan could not live if Martin jumped. He had to stop Martin. Dear God, he had to stop Martin! Jehan hurtled down the bridge, barely breathing as he screamed, "Martin! Martin! Mon Dieu! Don't Jump! Don't Jump! Martin! I love you! Don't Jump!"

Martin, turned, surprise and almost happiness glanced across his features, then quickly turned to a mask of bitter anger. The fan maker glared down at the poet in the most hurtful way he could manage, his eyes oddly glazed, barely stifling a cough, seeming unsteady on his feet as he balanced precariously on the bridge. His voice was unusually hoarse as he tried to yell back at Jehan, " Jeha-Prouvaire, what in the hell are you doing here? Boys like you get their pockets picked in this part of town. Go home. Go back to all your student friends, and all your meetings, and leave me the hell alone!"

Jehan could feel the same fury, the same passion building up in him as when Courfeyrac had told him what he'd done to Martin. He would not leave Martin here to kill himself. He would not let Martin hurt himself any more than Jehan and Courfeyrac had already hurt the fan maker. He planted himself directly in front of Martin, gazed up at the feverish-looking fan maker, and felt his voice gaining power with every word, "I will not leave you here to kill yourself, Martin! I will not go back to the meeting! I am not a child you can order about as you please! I love you, and I'm not just going to turn around and let you throw yourself into the bloody Seine! So, get off the damn bridge, and come talk to me!"

Martin looked shocked, his eyes still glazed unpleasantly, and coughed loudly, painfully, his body shaking. Jehan glared at him, standing firmly in place. Martin obviously needed help, and he would be helping Martin, whether the fan maker liked it or not. "Get off the bridge, Martin." Jehan hardly recognized the deep, commanding voice as his own.

Martin looked back at the river for a second, his eyes wild, his face oddly flushed. He seemed to be having some trouble standing straight, standing at all, even, and Jehan worried Martin would simply topple into the Seine then. Martin gave Jehan a long, odd look, then trembled slightly as he coughed. The fan maker made a slow, shaky turn, and climbed far too carefully off the bridge, as if he were unsure of how to move his body anymore. He placed himself in front of Jehan, leaning against the wall as if he could not stand within his own abilities, and looked resolutely down at the ground. Jehan realized exactly how awful Martin looked. The man was clearly ill, feverish, his eyes far too bright and glazed to be well; he had an odd, starved look in his eyes and seemed to be much thinner from the few weeks he'd spent on the street. Martin coughed again, roughly, and Jehan winced to see the awful, wracking movements the cough caused in the fan maker. He nodded to Jehan rather dejectedly, still gazing down, concentrating merely on trying to stand against the wall, and said in his hoarse, diminished tones, "Well, M. Prouvaire, what did you want to discuss?"

Jehan glared up at Martin. Why did the fan maker have to be so stubborn? The man was clearly sick, clearly needed help now. If only he would allow Jehan to help him. "We are equals, Martin, we all are. I address you as Martin, and I would be pleased if you would continue to address me as Jehan."

Martin nodded, with an air of anger still, refusing to look at Jehan. He coughed again, trying his hardest to seem strong and resolute as he barely supported himself on the side of the bridge. Jehan felt as if Martin were not truly listening to him, would not truly listen to him. But Martin needed to listen, needed to understand Jehan would not do to him what the unthinking Courfeyrac had. "Martin, listen to me, I am not a student who would use a poor workman as a grisette because he cannot find a willing girl. I am not François Emile de Courfeyrac!" Jehan could feel his voice rising again, but he was too angry with everyone, everything, himself, to care much whether he yelling or not at that moment. "God damn it Martin, I will not leave you, I will not insist you leave whatever job you may have, I will not even insist you live with me if you can pay for a flat, I won't even insist we become lovers. But I will insist that you allow me to at last help you until you're back on your feet, and I insist that you give loving me a chance! I love you, Martin, and I want to help you! I want you to be happy!"

Martin looked even more taken aback, He coughed again, not bothering to stifle this cough and winced. He seemed to stumble a moment, as if he couldn't think of a way to respond to this new, commanding, formidable Jehan. His tone was gentler now, though just as hoarse, and his face remained flushed with what Jehan was sure was a fever, "Prou-Jehan, I can't let you do that. Like I said before, there's no way I could ever possibly pay you back for all the help you want to give me-"

"I don't care! I love you, Martin, I Love You! You don't have to give me anything in return," Feuilly looked somewhat angry once more, glanced up with more force than he had before, even let go of the bridge for a moment –then sagged back against it weakly-, and seemed about to respond, but Jehan cut him off with a glare. He didn't care if the fan maker gave him anything in return. Why wouldn't Martin understand this? "That's what love is, you give and expect nothing in return. I don't give a damn about your pride, I don't give a damn about getting anything in return; I just want to love you in any way I can, even if you won't love me. I will help you whether you let me or not!" Martin looked even more stunned now, his fevered eyes growing wide as he stared into Jehan's face. "Now, we are both going back to the Musain, Martin, because you obviously need a doctor's attention, even if you would say you do not yourself. You will let Combeferre or Joly examine you and give you medicine." With more force," Which I will pay for." Martin was still giving him a diminished, almost dazed look, but he had not yet disagreed, "Once you are feeling well enough, we are going to talk to Enjolras and Combeferre about finding you another job. You are staying with me until you are well again, and then until you find a flat. I won't insist we share it after that, I swear." He gave Martin a long look that he tried to make both caring and demanding, trying to persuade the fan maker into doing what he ought, what would be best for him. "You have no choice in any of this. Now, let's go!"

Jehan surveyed the diminished fan maker for a moment, hoping, as Martin had not resisted Jehan's demands for several minutes, he would continue to do so, and hoping that Martin would be able to make it to Le Musain in the state he was in. Jehan held out his arm to help Martin move from the side of the bridge without collapsing, and said in a gentler, though still quite commanding tone, "I'll help you walk. Now, come."

Martin looked as if his resolve were falling away as he took in Jehan's arm, reached out to help him. The fan maker's expression became oddly soft as he managed to force more words out with his hoarse voice "Look, Jehan, I'll let you do it." A pause, " I'll let you help me. I'll let you get me medicine, share your flat, let you find me a job." There was a longer pause, Martin seemed to be struggling with what to say next. Another cough, an odd expression on Martin's face. "But don't insist that I give loving you a try."

Jehan could feel his former heart break fading back in with Martin's last statement. He looked away from the fan maker. So they would remain friends, nothing more. Jehan tried to console himself with the thought he would at least be able to help Martin now, make amends for his horrible mistake, make amends for what Courfeyrac had done to Martin. But, a painful, bitter corner of his heart spoke up, Martin still would not love him.

Jehan suddenly felt Martin's lips softly brush his own. Jehan looked up, and felt Martin gently pull away. What on earth had just happened? Had Martin really kissed him?

In a quiet tone, punctuated with a painful cough, "It would be silly for me to try loving you, Jehan. I don't have to try, I already do."

Jehan could hardly believe what Martin had just said. A pleasant warmth spread through Jehan's abdomen as he smiled up at Martin, he felt rather incredulous, rather amazed, rather in love, "You love me?"

Martin smiled back, in a feverish way, but still a true smile, almost laughing, but coughing harshly instead. Jehan gave him a soft look. "Of course I do. I've said as much, haven't I?"

Jehan looked up at him again, frowning somewhat for a moment, wondering if Martin had loved him, why in the world the fan maker had allowed Jehan to assist him, help him, give him all he could. Martin coughed roughly again for a long moment, then hesitated for a moment before saying in an oddly passionate tone, as if he wanted Jehan to understand what he were saying more than anything else in the world, "So, why wouldn't I let you help me? Why wouldn't I move in with you? You know obviously know about Courfeyrac now, and you know I'm a very proud person, I couldn't allow myself to be broken like that again." A long pause, " I loved Courfeyrac, too, you know, at the beginning. He trampled that love. I-I-I just feared that you would do the same." Another pause, a bout of coughing, a shiver. Jehan realized he really ought to Martin somewhere warm as soon he possibly couldWhen you're not sure where your next meal is coming from, where you'll be living in a week, or if you'll even get paid, you try to avoid anything that could hurt the one thing you're actually in control of: emotions, pride. I'm a very proud man, Jehan, and I didn't want to let myself be led on by another rich student without the brains or heart to give a damn about me, or my pride. "

"I do give a damn about you, and your pride," Jehan murmured, feeling as if the only thing he wanted to do in the world in that moment was to kiss his dear Martin again. And again. And again. Until he was quite out of kisses to give to his dear Martin.

"I know, mon cher, I do know that now," Martin's voice was warm the way Jehan had remembered it being before Martin had become so angry with him. Jehan hesitated for a few moments before looking up again and pressing his lips to Martin's. Martin responded warmly to the kiss, and pulled Jehan in closer. It was extremely pleasant for a moment, then Jehan felt Martin leaning into him with a heaviness that had more to do with his illness than any passion he felt for the poet at the moment and began to worry. Just how sick was Martin?

When they broke apart, Martin sunk against the wall, still holding Jehan's arm, as if for support. Jehan wrapped his arms around the fan maker, happy he had found the man, happy Martin loved him, happy Martin would let Jehan help him. Martin coughed again, grimacing as if the cough hurt him. Jehan wrapped his arms more securely around the sickly fan maker, "Perhaps we ought to go to Le Musain, let Combeferre or Joly look at you, mon cher."

Martin gave Jehan a slight smile and pressed a sweet kiss to the poet's cheek before allowing Jehan to take his arm and escort him back to the meeting the poet had so recently run out of. Now, though Martin was still ill, jobless, and likely more than half starved, Jehan felt that all was right in the world.

_Aw, happy Jehan! Please review, it'll make Feuilly get over his fever more quickly! No, seriously, as I'm reaching the end of my longest fic ever (and first Les Mis fic ever), I would really appreciate any and all comments, especially those surrounding what anyone thought of my characterizations of all my Amis. So, please, I beg of you, and I will give you a cat if you do so, review!_

_Thank you for reading! _


	13. Chapter 13

_Hey y'all! Sorry this update is so long in coming, but I've had to spend quite a bit of time in remote areas of the Midwest without the lovely interwebs over the past week and a half. Thusly, my apologies. _

_This is the last part of "Cheurs" –I know, I know, it makes me quite sad, too- but I'll be writing more about Les Amis (so, if you'd like to see anything/lack of certain things in future stories, let me know)._

_I'd like to thank TWSythar, Insanemistosingsmore, Bakura From School and Colonel Despard for their many reviews and help with my characterizations of Les Amis. I love you all very, very much. Also, thanks to anyone who has even left a single review. I love all of you, too. Thank you so much!_

_Disclaimer: Hmmm, did Hugo spend time in remote, wild-life filled areas of the Midwest?_

_And now, the ending… _

Epilogue

Feuilly sat on Jehan's rather comfortable couch, completing a meticulous sketch of the pretty poet from memory. Jehan would be home soon, and Feuilly intended to surprise him with the completed sketch.

Feuilly smiled to himself, carefully correcting the angle of Jehan's left eyebrow. He'd really come to love the poet, even more so than before, in the past few months he'd spent with Jehan. He'd become quite happy in the months he'd lived with Jehan, since he had let the poet convince him to accept help, had let Jehan love him. Jehan had turned out to be quite lovely to live with; helping Feuilly find another job, even offering to help Feuilly find another flat- as if he would even spend enough time in it to justify the cost-, writing him sweet, love-filled poems, playing his flute for Feuilly –he hadn't even known the poet had a flute before they'd moved in together-, greeting Feuilly every evening with a kiss and a soft spoken reminder of love. Feuilly was simply exquisitely happy with Jehan.

It wasn't perfect, Feuilly acknowledged, slightly straightening the curve of Jehan's nose, but then, nothing was. They'd had, and would likely continue to have, all sorts of minor disagreements- about Feuilly exhausting himself with work; about Agnes biting, scratching, or otherwise maiming Feuilly when he spent too much time distracting Jehan; about Jehan's fits of poetical inspiration and consequent night of sleepless, frantic scribbling. But the quarrels had never escalated into fights that like that horrid one he'd had with Courfeyrac; and neither he nor Jehan was able to spend more than an hour or so sulking after a quarrel, most likely less than fifteen minutes would pass before the accusing party would come over and wrap his arms around the other, kiss him, apologize. Staying angry with each other simply made them both too sad, and, being as in love with each other as they were, there was absolutely no reason for them to stay sulky and sad instead of joyously light-hearted and happy.

Feuilly frowned slightly at the drawing; there was something off about Jehan's eyes… He loved Jehan's eyes dearly. They were quite his favorite part of the beautiful poet. Jehan's lovely eyes were what had convinced him to go with Jehan that awful night, to let Jehan help him, to let treat Feuilly as gently as if he were a child as the fan maker had convalesced, let Jehan love him. The love, warmth, and fierce affection Jehan had made it clear he felt for the fan maker had never left the poet's eyes after that night, and Feuilly earnestly hoped it never would.

He smudged a bit of charcoal in one of Jehan's pupils, hoping to correct the shadow in the poet's eye. Jehan really was wonderful to live with. He and Feuilly spent countless, splendid hours discussing absolutely everything under the sun. Feuilly was fascinated by Jehan's thoughts on society, the fate of the modern worker, freedom in love, marriage laws, as much as he wondered at the poet's dreamy, philosophical musings on God, the future, clouds, poets of all types, art, beauty. Jehan was a wonder to talk to, a wonder to watch as he would suddenly become animated and passionate as they spoke of everything they could think of.

Feuilly glowered a bit at his sketch, wishing it would more closely resemble his darling poet. It was Jehan, clearly, but the sketch didn't have the lovely dreaminess Jehan usually had in his eyes, nor the perfect, soft, whimsical smile that often graced his lips, nor the general loveliness Jehan usually carried about his person, wearing it as a graceful, charming garment.

Feuilly sighed, accidentally leaving a smudge of charcoal across Jehan's nose. Damn. That would be difficult to remove before Jehan got home.

Feuilly started to carefully wipe away the charcoaled smudge. The door to Jehan's flat-well, the flat they shared now- opened. Jehan stepped into the flat, smiling amiably over at Feuilly. He scrambled to hide the sketch and rose to greet Jehan.

Jehan embraced him tightly, gave the fan maker a gentle kiss. "Mon cher…"

Feuilly smiled at the poet, felt Jehan lean against him comfortably, lightly caress his cheek. "Petit…" A quick pause, a gentle squeeze from Jehan," How was your day?" He led Jehan over to the couch, checked quickly to make sure the sketch was hidden under a pillow, and sat beside the poet.

Jehan leaned against him, smiling slightly as Feuilly lightly stroked his hair, "Difficult. The masons at the Rue de Grenelle-Saint-Honore aren't as easy to convince as Julian thought they would be." Jehan frowned for a moment, and Feuilly found himself hating whatever made his lovely poet frown. Jehan shook his head and smiled up at Feuilly, "But you, Martin, how was work today, cher?"

Feuilly smiled pleasantly down at Jehan. He loved these short moments they shared every evening, leaning against each other as they spoke of the day, relaxing and reveling in each other's company. "Not bad at all, Petit."

Jehan smiled more brightly, then looked away from Feuilly as he caught sight of the sketch, barely hiding behind a pillow. Jehan tried to grab the paper, but Feuilly pulled it away, holding it were the poet could not see it. Dear lord, there was no way he could let Jehan see this imperfect, sloppy sketch. Jehan laughed in a rather bewildered way. "What on earth are you hiding, Martin?"

Feuilly looked down, feeling silly and somewhat embarrassed. If only he'd had time to perfect the sketch…

Jehan gently pulled his hand down, capturing the sketch, giving it a long, studious look.

Feuilly was on the brink of snatching the sketch back from its subject when Jehan turned and smiled more brightly than ever up at him, "Is this me?" The poet sounded wondrous and oddly happy.

Feuilly tried to pull the sketch away from Jehan and felt the poet pull the sketch away, saw Jehan hold it protectively to his breast. "It's not very good, I know. But if you'll just give it back, I'll finish it for you…"

Jehan shook his head and brushed Feuilly's hands away from the sketch. "Martin, this is lovely. It's perfect, cher." Jehan smiled beauteously at him. "I can't believe you think I'm this beautiful."

Feuilly could himself beginning to grin back at the poet. But the sketch still had to be fixed, no matter how much Jehan liked. It wasn't really Jehan, not yet. "But it's not finished." He gestured at the sketch as Jehan held it out before him." This eye is all wrong, and I can't get that angle right. Just look at the smudge on your nose!"

Jehan pressed a finger to his lips and grabbed Feuilly's hand gently, "It's perfect, it's beautiful, and I quite like it the way it is." Feuilly felt Jehan brush one of the fan maker's charcoal covered fingers across his nose. "There, now I quite resemble this lovely portrait." Jehan uttered a delicious, musical laugh and kissed Feuilly.

Feuilly kissed the poet back warmly, wrapping his arms around Jehan's waist, "Silly Poet." A pause. "But I'm glad you like it, even if it's not finished."

Jehan grinned brightly, playfully, "Far-Too-Sensible Fan Maker." Jehan paused for a long moment, then kissed Feuilly's cheek gently, looking almost entirely serious now. "I love you, mon cher, mon amour."

Feuilly gazed back at Jehan lovingly, giving him a gentle squeeze, "I love you, too, mon petit."

Jehan gave Feuilly long, serious look, then kissed him in a quite pleasant way. "I'm so happy you've come to live with me."

Feuilly smiled brightly and kissed Jehan in the fondest, most affectionate he could possibly manage for an answer. He couldn't think of anything in his life that made him happier than Jehan had.

_And that's it. Thank you for reading! If you review, Jehan and Feuilly will be even happier, and we like them to be very, very happy. So please, please, please review! _


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